


Eggshells

by reckingstacks



Category: Neoscum (Podcast)
Genre: Extended Scumverse, Gen, HOW do i even tag this wrt setting that's gonna have to do, Platonic Cuddling, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reckingstacks/pseuds/reckingstacks
Summary: Your name is Kaveh Kesh and your new coworker is a runaway, an ex-ganger and an overall oddball with more secrets than you can even begin to count. She's also about to become your roommate for a month. This is fine.(Or: the process of adjusting to a life you were never made for.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok time for something a little different. Welcome to my first fic in what I'm calling the extended Scumverse(?) AKA no canon characters will directly be featured here but it's still so intrinsically tied to NeoScum's specific iteration of Shadowrun that it kinda has to go here. I also wanna keep everything in one place for ease of reading and it IS tied to my fics which DO feature canon characters and there may well be canon entities/factions mentioned/featured so if you want a link then there it is (not to mention Aubrey's whole Thing is just [huge neon LEGACY OF ADAM sign])
> 
> ANYWAY: in this first instalment, we wind back a few years to take a little look into Aubrey's past. If you want to familiarise yourself with her beforehand then take a peek at my Lost In Transit series, but I think you can probably read this first w/o too much bother! Now let's get to it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little baby chapter to get started. Let's meet a new face.
> 
> [Soundtrack: Stay In Bed - Crying on Vacation](https://galaxyswimteam.bandcamp.com/track/stay-in-bed)

Something about one of the new hires was off from day one. She breezed her way through physical training faster than anyone you've ever known, for a start, and you've known people who entered the company with a solid decade of military experience under their belts. You heard things from the other trainees; how abrasive she was one minute, how overly familiar the next, all while never actually connecting with anyone. She's weird, they said. She's going to make a bad team player, regardless of her proficiency. Hopefully they won't have to work with her.

So you have your reservations when she’s assigned to your team, but you're curious. People tell you you're too soft sometimes, but you operate under a specific set of principles in life. One of those posits that people always have a reason for being the way they are; you want to assess her firsthand before you pass judgement.

They may not have been entirely wrong about her. The first hurdle is getting her to carry a handgun.

"I already have guns," she says, as she stares down the Ares she’s supposed to be carrying.

You just blink at her slowly. Aside from it being absurd, you don’t see a single weapon on her.

"These are standard issue," is what you're about to say, but then she holds out her hands, and from her palms protrude... the barrels of two guns. Oh. Hm.

"What are those?"

"Machine pistols." Okay. This is. Okay. You sigh and press your hand to your forehead.

"Are you--Look, we're obligated to carry these, okay? Company policy. You have to keep it on you. But if you’re in a pinch… I won’t be the one filing a report on you for using _ those._" She looks--you don't know how she looks--accepting, maybe, of the answer, and holsters the pistol. This is already getting off to a weird start.

She’s bright, and she’s attentive, and she certainly seems to know exactly what’s expected of her on duty; in that sense, she fits in much better than some of the rumours about her would have led you to believe. But you really do have to concede that some of the _ other _ rumours about her are true, too.

Sometimes she's impossible to talk to, ranging from aloof to outright aggressive. Other times, she tips too far the other way; she throws her weight around a little too heavily, pushing her way into conversations left, right and centre. It's uncomfortable, but you don't think it's malice. You see the way she watches you all during her quiet phases while you’re on breaks, off-duty, when it's a dull day and you get maybe a bit more lenient than your superiors would like and start fucking around (hey, they're not there to see it). If you had to take a guess, you'd say she's trying to mimic you. She's _ trying _ to be part of the team. She just doesn't know how.

You can't get that thought out of your head when you see her show up looking tired and unkempt, when you only ever see her drinking Soylent or picking at weird combinations of pre-packaged snacks. It’s odd. She always looks like something’s eating away at her. It gets you curious again. You need to do some prodding.

You get your chance when you're rotated out for a lunch break during a weekend day shift. When you return with your bait, Aubrey is exactly where she was when you left: tucked away in a corner by herself, staring absently out of a window. She notices you before you even draw close.

"Hey." You wave your fast food bag in the air and then set it on the table, reaching inside for the tacos and spinning one across it to her. "I was just getting lunch, and I thought it might be nice to get you one. Y'know, if you want it. It's okay if you don't."

She looks at you, then at the wrapped taco that's come to a stop just in front of her, then picks it up and slowly starts peeling the paper away. Success? Success.

"There's a drink, too, if you want that," you add, presenting the two cans of Coke from inside the bag. "Sorry, I don't know if you like Coke. I just figured it was a safe bet."

"It's fine," she answers. "I don't... no, never mind. Coke’s fine. Thanks." You lift an eyebrow, but don't push her. You just unwrap your own taco and get to eating.

"So," you start, after a minute of silence, piecing together your next words in your mind very carefully. "Can I be really candid with you for a second?" She freezes, and maybe looks scared, just a little bit, just for a fleeting moment, but otherwise doesn't react. You take it as an invitation to continue.

"I really just wanted to ask, like... are you... okay? I feel like you've been having a hard time getting integrated, and... I don't know. You just look really tired." She does look tired. More than anything else, she looks tired. "Obviously, you're here for a reason, because I've never known _ anyone _ ace training like that at your age, and… you know. You’re doing good. But it’s not just about what you can _ do. _ We’re a _ team. _ I want you to feel like you _ fit in, _ too. If there’s anything I can do to help with that, if something’s bothering you..."

She stares, then looks away, chewing her food slowly. You feel bad, cornering her like this, but you don't know how else to get a meaningful answer out of her. You crack open your drink and take a sip, giving her time to formulate a response.

"I'm-- It's--" She stops and starts a couple of times, her gaze flicking between you and the table, like she wants to say something but can't bring herself to. "It's complicated, okay?" she says, finally.

Complicated. Complicated is always a code word for something more sinister.

"I'm not going to ask you to explain everything if you don't want to. But--and not to be too bold here--if you’re having trouble and you need social or health support, work can help with that. If you need help getting set up with it, I don't mind lending a hand. If you want it," you add, quickly. "You don't _ have _ to do anything, and I don't have to be involved. I just want you to know the option's there."

Aubrey puts her taco down and stares at it very intently, hands on her knees, breathing heavy. You already know you went too far.

"Aubrey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"Leave me alone," she snaps back, still not making eye contact. You stay seated at first. _ Something _ is up, and the last thing you want is to stand back and let it consume her. But she asked you to leave, and she looks like she might start freaking out if you don't, and you aren’t here to make a scene or cause her any more undue stress; you take your food and your drink and stand.

"Okay. I'm sorry. If you want to talk about this another time, I'm always happy to." With the seeds of concern having firmly taken root within you, you turn to leave the room. Maybe she'll seek out those support systems without your help. For now, you can only hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aubrey takes one for the team. Kaveh strikes a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: [Here's Your Two Dollars - Sincere Engineer](https://sincereengineer.bandcamp.com/track/heres-your-two-dollars)

Aubrey takes a bullet to her side during a scrap with a burglar one week later. It didn’t stop her from incapacitating the guy and keeping him pinned to the floor until backup arrived. In the whirlwind that followed, the last you saw of her was the on-call medics sedating her to get into the transport back to HQ.

You get called in two days later. Apparently she's asking for you.

She’s been getting progressively more hostile towards the medical staff and having panic attacks, the nurse explains, as he leads you to her room. She refused to speak to a psychologist, and this point, she’s stopped conversing in any meaningful way with anyone at all. The only thing they could get out of her was a request for you to visit.

The nurse shows you in and shuts the door, and then it's just you and Aubrey.

You weren’t prepared for just how _ sad _ she looks. She’s curled in on herself, all pale, with bags under her eyes. She looks like she’s been crying. She glances up at you as you enter, but says nothing.

"Hi." You force a little smile and tentatively circle around to the chair beside her bed, where you take a seat. "Good to see you’re still with us. How are you feeling?"

"Bad," she answers flatly, sniffing and all but confirming your suspicion of her crying. You almost don't know where to go next.

"They told me you've been having a rough time," you say, finally. "Is it something I can help with?"

She looks, not at you, but _ through _ you for a few moments. You wait patiently for her answer.

"What you said," she says, eventually. "About the support stuff."

"Yeah?"

"I think--I think I want that." She sniffs again and wipes at her face. "But I don’t know where I’m supposed to… go. How to do it."

"Okay. Well, one thing at a time. We can work on that when you're out of here. That said, if you need psych support, that’ll move a lot quicker if they give you a preliminary assessment in here."

"I don't want to speak to them."

"You'll have to, at some point."

"I know. But not right now. I don't want to speak to them while I'm here. I want to go home."

"Okay." She has her reasons. "Did they tell you when you can leave?"

"No. They kept touching me when I told them not to and then they tried to make me talk to the psychologist. I said I didn't want to, and they wouldn't leave me alone until I asked them to call you." Jesus Christ. Okay. You need to have some stern words with someone.

"Do you want me to find out when you can leave?" you offer, and she nods, sinking a little lower against the back of the bed and pulling the sheets up over herself. "Okay. I'll be back in a minute."

The second the door shuts behind you you let the veneer fall, grit your teeth and rake your hands down your face. You're pissed that they pushed her around like this. You're pissed that nobody who knows better has done anything about it. This shouldn't have happened.

You only have to walk about ten feet before you spot a nurse. "Hey," you call out, flagging them down with one hand. "You know this patient--Aubrey? Aubrey Still? Who's been looking after her? Because they all owe her an apology." You get the feeling from the nervous look on the elf's face that you're looking at one of those people right now. "Apparently she was being manhandled without consent. Is that true?"

"She was being aggressive--"

"Because people were ignoring her boundaries? Because the situation was triggering for her?" Maybe you weren’t here to see it, but you suspect you’re hitting the mark. "We should know better than that here. When is she going to be medically fit to leave?"

"Caring for her necessitates physical contact. If she would just speak to the psychologist--"

"Are you serious right now?"

"She needs to be seen. I'm not at liberty to discuss the intricacies of the matter, but her behaviour since she was admitted has been concerning. It warrants an assessment, for her own benefit."

"She got _ shot _ not even _ two days _ ago! This can't wait until she's recovered? Let her get back on her feet, and _ then _ we can worry about _ behaviour_. When can she leave?"

It's at times like this your height _ really _ comes in handy, because the nurse looks distinctly unsettled as you loom over them.

"I'll--I'll ask the doctor to check on her as soon as possible."

"Thank you." Stepping away, you don't break eye contact until you cross the threshold back into Aubrey's room and the door puts a solid barrier between the two of you.

"Well," you say to Aubrey as you take up your position back in the chair, "I don't know when you're going to be able to leave, but they're going to send someone to check on you, so I guess we'll find out then." Her eyes widen and she ducks a little lower under the sheets. "They won't--They won't treat you like they did before. I promise. I spoke to someone about it. I'm sorry you had to go through that."

She looks at you like she doesn't know what to do with the apology you just handed her. Eventually, she emerges from underneath the blanket.

"Can you stay here?"

"While they check you?"

"Yeah."

"If you want me to." She nods quickly. "Okay. I'll stay. You know they’re going to have to touch you, though, right?”

She looks away, nods slowly, and falls silent again until the doctor arrives, flanked by the same guilty-looking nurse you accosted twenty minutes ago. All emotion evaporates from Aubrey’s face as the doctor looks her over, checks on the wound in her side. From where you're sitting, it looks sore, but it's clean and well-stitched and on questioning, Aubrey denies being in much pain. There's something about her in this state that's unsettling. Robotic, you would say, if it didn't feel like an inappropriate word choice. Like she's going through the motions of something she's forced herself through a hundred times before.

“Can we try taking some bloods again?” The doctor looks expectantly at Aubrey, who hesitates, but then nods, reluctantly unfastening the top of her gown to expose the veins near her shoulder, as the nurse busies themself preparing a syringe from the trolley they carted in along with them. “Okay. Just _ relax, _ this time. It’ll only take a few seconds.”

Aubrey barely flinches when the needle pierces the vein. It _ is _ over and done with in a matter of seconds, the tiny pinprick of blood that remains covered with a little blue band-aid, which in turn disappears back under her gown as she re-fastens it at the collar.

“Excellent. Okay. We’ll need to check in a couple more times over the next few days, but if everything’s coming back clean, and you’re still healing well, we can talk about discharging you then. You _ will _ need someone to help you out at home, though. You’re not going to be able to do anything strenuous. You probably won’t _ want _ to, either. You’re going to be sore for a while, even with painkillers. We’ll give you a full discharge plan closer to the time.”

"And the psychology assessment?" You narrow your eyes at the doctor as he glances over at you. "It can wait until she's recovered some, yes?"

"...We can postpone it, for now," he replies, looking just as uncomfortable under your gaze as the nurse did, and turning to address Aubrey again instead. "Someone might have to come and ask you one or two questions as part of your debrief, but we can discuss arranging the full assessment for some time after you've been discharged." Aubrey nods wordlessly. An awkward silence hangs in the air, finally broken when the doctor clears his throat.

“Well, we’ll get these bloods off to the lab, and with any luck, you’ll be out of here ASAP.” Aubrey nods, again, and watches as the nurse de-gloves and they and the doctor exit the room. As soon as the door clicks shut, Aubrey slumps back against the bed and sighs heavily, clenching and unclenching her fists as she stares up at the ceiling.

"Well," you say, "I think that went okay."

"Yeah." She nods slightly and closes her eyes. "I'm not going to be able to work for a while, am I?"

"Not until you pass the health exams, no."

"Did I fuck up?"

The question is so uncharacteristically transparent that it throws you off for a moment.

"Did you--What?"

"I was stupid and I let myself get shot, and now I’m gonna be stuck, doing nothing, just--being useless to everyone."

"Woah, woah, woah, slow down, there." You’re a fraction of a second from reaching out to take her hand before remembering her thing about being touched. "You didn't fuck up. It's okay. These things happen. We all have to be prepared for it.

"But I could have avoided it. I _ should _ have avoided it."

"Maybe, but that doesn't matter, now. We can't change what happened. You’ll learn from it, like we all do. There's no point beating yourself up about it, okay? Just rest up, and make sure you're at 100% before you come back." That... raises a question in your mind. "Are you--Do you live with anyone? You shouldn't strain yourself while you’re recovering."

"No."

You suck in a breath through your teeth. "Well, they might want to keep you here longer, then."

_"No." _ Her eyes snap open and she sits up to look at you, a pained look flashing across her face briefly as she moves. "I'm not staying here. Don't let them keep me here. _ Please_."

"Do you have any friends you could stay with?"

"No."

"Family?"

"No."

"Nobody that could stay with _ you? _ Nobody to help at all?"

"_No._"

“Then… you’re gonna have to stay.” You shrug helplessly. “They won’t let you go until you can look after yourself.”

“No. I’m not staying any longer than I have to.”

“Well, you’re gonna _ have to._”

“No. _ Please. _ There’s gotta be something--” She falters, there, tripping over the rest of whatever it is she wanted to say. You’re already flipping through a list of potential solutions in your head; unfortunately, they’re few and far between. There’s just one that stands out as the most viable.

You breathe in, hold it, and then exhale hard. You can’t believe you’re doing this. You really are your parents’ child.

"Okay. How about this: you can stay with me for a little while. Just until you’re good to go home on your own."

Aubrey’s expression changes immediately, though not quite in the way you’d expect; the fear is clouded over by suspicion.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. I just want to make sure you're safe. It's either that, you stay here, or you go home alone and risk hurting yourself again. We already know option two is off the table, and I don't like option three. Neither will you, if you tear something and land yourself back in here."

She stares at you for a bit, like she's trying to figure out where the lie is or like she's waiting for you to drop the act. But she can't, and you don't, and eventually she falls back against the bed, defeated.

"Okay. Fine. As long as I can get some things from home first."

"Of course."

She looks down, fiddling with a lock of hair between her fingers, and then back up at you, after a few seconds.

"Can you come and see me again? While I'm still in here?"

"As long as I have time, sure." You nod firmly. “I’ll let you know. And if there’s anything you need, anything you want, just let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Her eyes slip shut, and her whole body heaves with a deep sigh. "Look, I'm… tired. I'm gonna try and sleep for a bit."

"Should I go, if you want to sleep?" She nods, and you rise from the chair. "Okay. I'll see you later. You know how to get hold of me. Really, if anything comes up, if the doctors get shitty with you again, tell me. I'll come and talk to them."

"Okay," she murmurs. You shoot her one last look over your shoulder as you make for the door. You almost don't want to leave her; all of a sudden, you feel so very, very protective of her.

"I'll talk to you later, Aubrey."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aubrey opens up. Kaveh goes dad mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW we start getting into the meat of this story!! Took me a while longer than I would have liked to get this done because of DISTRACTIONS and music trawling and some last-minute editing but I'm excited to get this out and start digging into the character exploration stuff that spawned this fic in the first place.
> 
> Soundtrack: [It Follows - Nervus](https://bsmrocks.bandcamp.com/track/it-follows)

You end up visiting Aubrey every day. The doctors pose no further problems for the rest of her stay, thank God. It’s still obvious that she hates being there, but you don’t see any more of the sheer panic that overtook her at the prospect of an extended stay. Despite her disdain for the situation, she doesn't ask anything of you beyond your company, even when you offer to pick up food or drinks or things for her to keep her mind occupied. There’s the TV in her room, and her cyberdeck, so you _ guess _ that’s enough, but it can’t be pleasant for her, being shut away inside her own head all day.

Unsurprisingly, she's itching to go, the day she's discharged. When you arrive, she's already packed up and waiting, dressed back in the casual wear from her locker. She looks like she wants to take off at top speed down the corridor to the exit, but she doesn't, and definitely couldn't, even if she tried.

"Can I have my ammo back?" she asks the secretary at the desk, as she’s in the midst of signing one of the numerous forms she’s having to swipe through on a screen in front of her.

"Your...?"

"My ammo. The magazines for my guns. They're cybernetic. They took them out when I was anaesthetised. They told me I'd get them back when I was discharged."

"Right. One second." The secretary stands and disappears through a door in the wall behind her. A minute later, she re-emerges and presents Aubrey with two large magazines, which Aubrey takes and quickly slots back into place in her arms via panels that open on the undersides. You didn't realise before how beefy those guns were. They look so unassuming when all you can see are the tips of the barrels in her palms. What would she _ need _ something like those for?

You don't have long to ponder the question. The second the last form is signed, Aubrey drops the pen and turns to leave.

Once outside, you lead her to your car and help her into the passenger side before hopping into the driver's seat. She plugs her address into the GPS while you manoeuvre out of the parking lot, and once you’re out onto the main road, leans her head against the window and stares out absently as the world rushes by.

The more time you spend with Aubrey, the more questions you have, and answers are scarce. You didn't learn much about her during her hospital stay; only that she spent most of her life on bad terms with her family, and that she’s prone to troubled sleep. Everything else you've pieced together from the implications of telling comments, or the process of elimination. You know one thing for certain: at nineteen, she's been through more hardship than some people experience in decades. If this girl needs anything, it's a friendly shoulder to lean on. The least you can do is try to give her that.

“Do you want to stop for anything on the way?” you ask, trying to jumpstart any kind of conversation to break the stifling near-silence filling the car over the quiet hum of the radio.

“...No, I’m good. Thanks.” Aubrey turns to look at you, just for long enough to shake her head, then fixes her attention back on the outside world. There’s a long pause, and then: “Are you sure you can’t just leave me when we get to my place?”

“No,” you answer firmly. “I know you don’t like this, and I know you want to be at home, but that’s not an option right now. I’m sorry.”

Aubrey falls silent again, and remains so for the rest of the ride.

The tower block the GPS leads you to is bland and unassuming, sitting among a row of several identical buildings in an equally bland and unassuming area of town. You ride an elevator that’s seen better days to Aubrey's floor and she jams a card key into the slot to unlock her door.

The tiny studio apartment inside is... a mess. The mattress on the floor with a collection of pillows and blankets heaped on top of it looks more like a nest than a bed. The kitchen is the cleanest part of the room, but judging by what you usually see her eating, you can safely assume that it's because she never actually uses it. There's a coffee table, stacked with empty drink bottles and plastic food packaging. A TV screen sits propped precariously against the wall beside what you assume is the bathroom door. While you’re taking it all in, Aubrey heads for the mountain of junk in the far corner, but you catch her wincing as she kneels to begin rummaging through it.

“Hey. Let me take care of that.” She looks up at you as you stride into the room and stares at you for a moment, then concedes without argument, dragging a battered duffel bag into sight and sitting back.

“Go ahead. But I don’t know where anything is.” She pulls one hand through hair greasy from a lack of washing, and grimaces as she teases out a loose knot. “I don’t even know if I have any clean clothes.” Everything she owns--which doesn't appear to be much--is heaped haphazardly around the room, so confirming or denying that is… well, you’re inclined to assume the negative.

"It’s fine. We can do some laundry when we get to my place." She visibly perks up, like it’s a privilege she’d never even considered, and immediately starts pointing you towards various indistinct piles of clothing.

Under her instruction, you manage to pack what looks like most of her figurative wardrobe into the bag before she decides she's done and ready to head back out. The drive back to your building is quiet and uneventful. You stop at the laundromat next door to get her clothes in the wash, then carry on up to your apartment.

"The bed's already good to go, if you want to make yourself comfortable," you tell her, as she slings her drawstring bag off her shoulder and hangs it on a coat hook; you leave the duffel by the door for later. 

She patters into the hallway and peers around the door into the living room, where you've unfolded the futon and made it as inviting as you can, with a generous pile of pillows and the comfiest blanket you could find. She gingerly takes a seat, then lies back against the pillows, unzipping her hoodie and throwing it off now that you're out of the early-spring chill outside. For the first time since… actually, maybe since you’ve _ known _ her, she actually looks relaxed.

"Do you want anything?" you ask, sticking your head in the doorway. "Something to eat? Drink?"

"A drink would be nice."

"Sure. What do you want? Water? I've got OJ, or I can make tea, or coffee…"

"...Water is fine. Thanks."

"Gotcha." You're out to the kitchen and back again in a few short moments, handing off the glass to her. “Is there anything I should know about before I make a start on dinner later? I’m flexible, if there’s things you can’t eat or don’t like.”

Aubrey bites her lip, and takes a slow sip from her water before she speaks.

"I don't… eat a lot of food. The textures gross me out, and I can’t taste any of it, anyway.”

“Wait, what?”

“I don’t taste anything. At all.” You feel like you should have known this by now, even though it’s perfectly reasonable that you didn’t.

“How come?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I just don’t.”

“Huh. Well, that… sucks.” Is that the right response? God, you hope that’s the right response. “I guess that explains why you’re always eating the same things all the time.”

“Can I just eat what I normally eat?”

“If that’s what you’re comfortable with, sure. Ping me a list of what you like, and I’ll grab something from the store later. The offer’s always on the table, though. Literally, I guess. I don’t mind cooking for the both of us if you want a proper meal. How's your side doing?"

The smile that had been forming on her face fades, and she pauses and stares down into her water before answering.

"It hurts."

"Did you take anything for it?" She shakes her head. "Did they give you anything?" She nods. "Yeah? Where is it?"

"In my bag, on the hook. There’s two bottles. Antibiotics and painkillers." You turn and hone in on the grey bag hanging from one of the pegs in the hallway. There's not much in there. The pill bottles are the first things your hand finds. You skim over the labels as you return to the living room, then pop open the painkillers and shake a couple out into your palm.

"Here you go." You offer them out to Aubrey and set both bottles down on the end table beside the couch. "Is it worse than it was the other day?" She shakes her head as she swallows the pills down with a gulp of water.

"It hurt then, too."

"You told the doctor it didn’t."

“I know.”

“How come?”

That question might have been a bit much. She says nothing.

"You don't have to answer that, if you don't want to."

"Yeah. I don't want to."

"Okay. Do you want anything else?" She shrugs. So, that's a yes. "What are you thinking about?"

"I don't know," she says. And then: "Can we put the radio on? Or the TV? It's all wireless, right?"

"Of course.” You realise what she might be implying half a second later. “Oh, you--you want access. Right." With a few taps at the commlink on your wrist, her deck has access to control the handful of devices around the apartment you deem appropriate, and the TV flares to life almost immediately. This might take some getting used to. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't a bit unsettling.

Aubrey seems satisfied and burrows down into the pillows and under the sheets, setting aside her water. You've seen her training tapes, and you've seen her temper, and they both stand in stark contrast with how placid she looks now, wrapped up in blankets on _ your couch, _ of all places. She looks so... small. You're reminded again of just how much she's endured despite her youth. At least she's comfortable now. You feel better, knowing she's not stressed just by being where she is, and knowing nobody else is around to mistreat her in your absence.

"I have some things I need to do," you tell her, deciding it’s time you left her be. She might be comfortable, but she still looks wiped out. "If you need anything, just yell, okay?" Aubrey, now settled on her back, hands on her stomach, and looking more than a little drowsy, gives you a tiny nod in response. Perhaps she'll sleep better here. You can only hope. She deserves some real rest.

(Your comm buzzes once, before she drifts off: it’s her shopping list, and it’s short. You tack it onto the day’s to-do list.)

***

You're busy in the kitchen when Aubrey finally emerges from her nest on the couch, bleary-eyed and bundled up in a blanket.

"Hey." You glance up from chopping vegetables and shoot her a little smile. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," she answers, padding across the room and peering over your shoulder. "What are you making?"

"Stir fry. Do you want some?" You can feel her hovering behind you, eyeing the pan.

"...No, I’m good. Thanks." She backs away, leaves and re-enters. "Can I refill my water?"

"Sure. First button on the fridge there, if you want it ice cold." You hear her top up, and in your peripheral vision you can see her take a seat at the table, still sporting her blanket. "Oh, your clothes are done, by the way. I went down and ran them through the dryer for you. Everything’s back in your bag."

"Thanks," she mumbles, metal hands clinking against the glass as she takes a drink. "Can I use your shower later? I didn’t get around to it while I was on the med bay."

"Of course, as long as it’s okay for your wound.”

"It's fine. I know how to look after it. I’ve dealt with worse." You pause with your knife mid-chop for a second, and… now that you think about it, yeah, she must have done. You saw the brutal scarring around her shoulders, earlier, where her cybernetics meet what scant little is left of the flesh of her shoulders. It makes the cleanly-stitched bullet wound pale in comparison.

“I picked up your stuff, too,” you continue, resuming your chopping and glad to be able to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable off-road it was veering towards. “Like, the Soylent and everything. It’s up on the counter, there, if you want to help yourself.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She abandons her blanket and joins you at the countertop, picking through the packets of powder and nutrition bars. “You-- Am I supposed to pay for this?”

“No, no. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I’ll--I can cover it.”

“You really don’t have to.” You glance up at her. “You have enough to worry about right now.”

“I _ want _ to cover it.”

“If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure.” Even as she’s ripping open one of the packets of powder and measuring water out into the beaker you left out for her, the commlink on your wrist lights up, notifying you of the money transfer. It’s almost dead on what you paid. She knows her stuff. The off-white drink she takes back to the table a minute later looks a lot less appetising than the pan full of vegetables you’re dumping a packet of noodles into, but she seems content enough with it.

“So,” you chime in, once you’re sat down and a couple of minutes into what had been an otherwise-silent dinner. “I’m back at work tomorrow, which means you’ll have the place to yourself for most of the day. I’ll… leave a note or something about where the important stuff is, in case you need it, but you’re all set for food, and you’re welcome to pretty much anything in the bathroom, if you want to freshen up.” She just nods. “How’s your side doing?”

“Fine.”

“Still sore?”

She hesitates, making brief eye contact with you, then nods again, slowly, as she stares into the cup she’s drinking from.

“Hey,” you murmur gently. “You don’t have to act all tough. If it hurts, it hurts. Better that you tell someone so we can pick up on it if something’s not right.”

“It’s fine,” she says, again, louder this time, sighing and rubbing at the side of her face. “It hurts, but… it’s fine. It’s not as bad as it was. I can take some more painkillers after I shower.”

“Okay. That’s all I want to know.” Satisfied, you can comfortably resume eating. “I just don’t want you popping a stitch or getting an infection or something.”

“I won’t. Or, I’ll know if something’s really wrong. I’ve had things go wrong before.” You raise an eyebrow. There’s a story--stor_ ies _\--behind that comment. It’s too tempting.

“What kinds of things?” You take the plunge and end up regretting it, as she turns her gaze up towards you and stares. Hard. It’s unsettling. You feel like you’re getting a taste of your own medicine; you’re the willowy little nurse being loomed over by a 6’4” security guard, except Aubrey doesn't need the height advantage when she's got guns in her arms.

“I’ve been hurt before. I’ve had surgery.”

“Right. Things go wrong. I get it.” You are suddenly very, very eager to move on from the subject. “Well, just--you know. If you feel off, let me know.”

Aubrey is quiet for the remainder of dinner and disappears into the bathroom once she’s done with her drink and rinsed the cup out. Later, after taking a shower yourself, you walk into the kitchen to find her at the sink, scrubbing away at the dishes.

"What are you doing?"

She locks up and whips her head around to look at you.

"I just thought I'd help, while you're-- I thought--"

"Hey, hey, don't worry about it. This isn't your mess to clean up, especially not right now. Leave the dishes. You deserve a break."

"I've _ been _ on a break. I haven't done _ anything _ in six days."

"Being on a medical bay for a gunshot wound doesn't count as taking a break," you tell her gently, picking up and offering out a towel for her to dry her hands off. "Don't worry about stuff like this. I've got it. We don't even need to do most of this by hand, anyway. The dishwasher can clean most of it."

Aubrey looks at you, then at the towel, then slowly takes it from you and rubs it over her hands.

"Okay. Sorry."

"Don't be. I appreciate that you want to help out." You give her a little smile. "But you're here to rest, not do chores. You can relax." She looks at you with uncertainty on her face, but it eventually breaks into a smile.

"Thanks."

"Hey, you're welcome. Go on, let me deal with all this." You nudge her back towards the living room, and thankfully, she doesn't flinch at the contact. When you're done tidying up and you go to check in on her, she's already fast asleep. You quietly take up occupation on the other side of the couch, and for a while, the two of you just sit there like that; your attention trained on the TV, her drifting in and out of consciousness. Surprisingly, it's not at all uncomfortable. It's the most at ease you've ever felt with her. That feels like progress.

You call it a night, eventually, leaving Aubrey to put herself to bed when she's ready. You're going to rest easier tonight knowing that she's safe in the room next door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aubrey has a bad night. Kaveh does his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: [Wicked Dreams - City Mouth](https://citymouthil.bandcamp.com/track/wicked-dreams-2)

You don't hear the crying at first.

You only woke up to take a leak, and you're still half asleep. But you're marginally more awake when you leave the bathroom than when you entered; enough so that this time, you catch the noise coming from the living room.

You're at the door before you can even think about it, and you open it to find Aubrey propped up on the couch, sobbing so hard she hasn’t even noticed you.

"Aubrey?" She looks up when you say her name, her eye glowing bright blue in the dark, and she tries to wipe the tears off her face, but she can't stifle them for more than a few seconds before she starts up again. You're suddenly very, very awake.

"What's wrong?" you ask, but she doesn't answer. You walk over and carefully perch on the edge of the futon. She doesn't react. Very slowly and very carefully, you extend a hand and touch her shoulder. She looks at you again, but still doesn't make a move, though the tears keep coming.

"Hey. What's up?" Still, nothing. "Okay. Can I--" You scoot closer to her and slide your arm around her shoulders. To your surprise (and relief), she doesn't protest; she leans into your side, still sobbing, arms folded around herself.

"It's okay," you murmur, rubbing at her shoulder gently. "You're okay. Whatever it is, it's not happening now. You're safe." She stops wailing quite so loudly as you attempt to soothe her, but you can still feel her shuddering under your arm. You wonder if it's pain, but she's crying _ way _ too hard for it to just be that when there's a bottle of heavy-duty painkillers right beside her that would knock it out in fifteen minutes flat.

You're not actively keeping track, but you must be sitting there for at least ten minutes before she finally quiets down and stops shaking, though her breathing is still ragged. You reach back to tap on the lamp on one of the end tables, and grab the tissue box sitting on the coffee table for her.

"Here." You offer her the box; now, with the light on, you can see her cheek is wet and her eye is red. She takes the box and yanks out a wad of tissues, wiping at her face and sniffling loudly. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

She chokes out another little sob and shakes her head, balling up the first handful of tissues and pulling out a second.

"It's just a dream. It doesn't matter."

"Are you sure? Because it looks like it matters a lot." You reach out to her again, slowly, as before, and she quickly shuffles over to you, allowing you to drape your arm back around her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head.

"Okay." You put your left hand on the shoulder closest to you and rub gently. Maybe this is what she meant by not sleeping well. "Do you need anything? A drink? I can get you some more water, or tea, if it'll help."

"No. Maybe. Not yet." She shakes her head slightly, her gaze fixed somewhere on the opposite wall. "Stay--Stay here."

"Okay." You feel her move again, pressing herself closer to you. It's… not quite weird, but unexpected. After a minute, she reaches one of her arms around you, pressing her face against your shoulder as she clutches at your shirt. You remember what she told you. Bad family. Rough upbringing. Did she ever have this? Someone to just give her a hug and tell her things will be okay?

God, that’s fucked.

For a while, you just sit. It’s not a comfortable silence, but it’s better than her crying. She shivers occasionally, sniffles once or twice. You keep your arm around her and your hand on her shoulder. Your paternal instincts are kicking in _ hard _, and it's taking so much effort to refrain from doting on her as much as you want to. You don't want to smother her, given her usual attitude towards close contact.

"Can I have that tea now?" she asks, eventually.

"Sure. I have black, green, chamomile..." You pause, and then remember: "I guess taste is irrelevant here. Let's go with chamomile. It might help you sleep a little easier. Are you okay on your own for a few minutes?" She nods. You ease away from her, stand, and head to the kitchen. When you return, she's knocking back another dose of painkillers, and slumps back against the pillows as you offer the mug out.

"Careful, it's hot." The warning comes completely reflexively, and you have to do a double take. "Wait, does that matter to you?"

"No. I know it’s hot, but… no pain." One of those tiny little ghosts of a smile passes over her face as she takes the drink and cradles it in her hands. "Thanks."

"Just don't burn your mouth or spill it. Do you want me to stay here?"

"You don't have to."

"Do you want me to?" She hesitates, then nods slowly, so you sit yourself back down beside her on the futon.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

"You didn't. It's okay. I was already awake. Anyway, I... Y'know." You shrug. "I think I'd want to know if you're upset. Is it anything I can help with?"

"...I don't know. I don't think you can control what I dream about."

"...I guess not."

"You're--You're already helping." She stares down into her drink and bites her lip. "You got those doctors off my ass, and you washed my clothes and bought me food, and you're letting me stay here, and--" She stops, drawing in a shaky breath and bringing one hand up to wipe at her right eye. "I don't know why you're bothering. I don't deserve any of this."

"Hey, hey. No need to get upset," you murmur, reaching out again to rub her shoulder. "You deserve _ help _. It’s that simple. It's not like you've done anything wrong."

"Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything." The question throws you for a moment. "This isn't... about me. It's about you."

"Why? What's the point?"

"Because you _ matter, _ Aubrey." You squeeze her shoulder gently. "You're a goddamn living person, and you deserve to be cared about. You're just trying to survive, like the rest of us, and if we can make that any easier for each other, we should." Aubrey doesn't answer you verbally. She just starts crying again, despite her obvious efforts not to. You sigh and wrap your arm all the way around her shoulders, eyeing her drink to make sure she doesn't spill it into her lap.

"You're a good kid, Aubrey," you murmur. "I think you're doing your best. Don't be so hard on yourself, alright?" She gives a little nod, letting her head loll to the side to rest on your shoulder.

"They _ are _ gonna let me go back to work, right?"

"As long as you get medical clearance. Which you will. Don't worry about that right now. You’ve been through a lot. You don't have to think about it for at least a couple of weeks."

"But--"

"No buts. We'll get it sorted out, I promise. It'll be fine." You give her a firm squeeze, then peel yourself away from her. "Alright, well, I could really use some more sleep. If I go back to bed, are you going to be okay on your own? I don't mind if you stay up, and you can still come and get me if you really need me."

"...Yeah. I'll be okay."

"Alright. I'll see you later."

As you leave the room, you hear the TV click on and the volume wind down until it's inaudible by the time you shut your bedroom door. You might have taken on more than you bargained for by letting Aubrey stay. The next couple of weeks might get _interesting._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aubrey opens up... again. Kaveh is definitely not concerned at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: [Twelve - tide/edit](https://tideedit.bandcamp.com/track/twelve-2)
> 
> (If you were here before this chapter was uploaded, I also changed the song for chapter 4! City Mouth continue to be the perfect soundtrack to Aubrey's entire life)

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that Aubrey is awake when you get up for work a few hours later--she _ did _ spend most of yesterday asleep, after all--but it does, a little bit. You _ almost _ forgot she was there, which means you jump when you open the living room door and find her sitting straight up, staring at the opposite wall.

“_Jesus-- _ Hey.” Trying to look like you _ didn’t _ nearly just throw coffee on the floor, you wait until she turns to you, which takes a couple of seconds. “You’re up early.”

“I’m always up early.”

“Right. How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay in the end?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. I’m… fine.” This time, you decide not to question it.

“Good. Did you, uh-- Do you want a drink, or something to eat?”

“...Coffee would be nice.”

“Sure.” You zip back to the kitchen to pour a second mug for her and return to the living room, where you sit beside her with your own. She cradles the cup in her hands with her legs pulled right up to her chest. It strikes you as odd, initially, given yesterday’s admission about her lack of taste, but perhaps it’s just as much for her other senses as it would be for that. Going through the motions, the scent, the warmth, even if she can't taste it. It’s something to focus on.

“Are you gonna be okay on your own today?” you ask, taking a sip of your own drink. “You can always call me or something, if you need to.”

“...Yeah.” She nods without looking up from her coffee. “I won’t… trash the place, or do anything stupid.”

You find yourself chuckling. “Good. I trust you. If you want anything from the store, I can swing by and pick it up on my way home later, so let me know.”

“What if something happens to you at work?”

The question takes a second to sink in.

“It won’t,” you say, once you’ve processed it. “I’ll be fine. It’s a low-risk job in broad daylight.”

“What if it _ does? _ And then I’m stuck here, on my own, after they said I shouldn’t be doing a lot, and--then _ you’re _ hurt, too--”

“Aubrey, Aubrey, Aubrey.” You reach over, pat her on the shoulder. She stops dead and stares at you. “Don’t freak out. It’ll be _ fine, _ okay?” you insist, squeezing her shoulder for emphasis. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me. And if it does, I know people who we can fall back on, who can come and help you out. It’s okay.”

She looks skeptical, but after a second, she sighs, nods, and relaxes back against the couch.

“Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry. I get why you’re worried. I can check in with you over the course of the day, if it’ll help.”

“...Yeah. It would.”

“Sure. Okay. I’ll let you know when I’m off for lunch, or something, and whenever else I have a spare minute.” You’re already knocking back the last of your coffee at this point, and rising to your feet for a refill. “Alright, I’m hungry. Are you gonna eat now, too?”

She nods and follows you out into the kitchen.

Breakfast is quiet, but comfortable: you, flipping eggs in a pan; Aubrey, slowly pulling apart a meal bar in between sips of coffee; the radio on, but turned down low to provide some background noise without disturbing the peace. It's nice, actually, having the company. It's been a little while since you had a roommate, and Aubrey is content to just exist alongside you as you go about your usual morning routine. 

You point a few things out to her before you leave--how the coffee machine works, where you keep the tea, how to work the electronics manually if she can't tap into them. Knowing she has no need to use most of the kitchen is a weight off both your minds, you think. No risk of her accidentally setting anything on fire, unless she does something truly, astonishingly_, spectacularly _ wrong mixing a fucking protein shake.

You keep your promise, and ping her a message every few hours or so, just to let her know you're still on your feet. You don't get a whole lot in response, but then, you don't really need to. She just needs reassurance that you're doing okay; you just need to know that she isn't in a panic.

(When you leave that evening, you consider picking up the pamphlets on psychiatric support for her, but decide against it. You said yourself that she doesn't have to think about coming back to work for a few weeks yet. It's too soon after her clash with the infirmary staff. She’ll get there. One thing at a time.)

***

You arrive home to find Aubrey in place on the couch, TV on, empty Soylent cup beside her. You notice, now, how much better she really looks since she left medical; hair washed, fresh clothes on, the bags under her eyes noticeably faded.

"Hey." You shrug your coat off, hang it up, and lean in through the doorway. "How are you doing?"

“Not bad,” she answers, smiling slightly as she cocks her head at you. “Better here than in a hospital bed.”

“Looks like.” You return the smile as you pull your shoes off. “Your side’s not giving you grief?”

She shrugs. “Not really. It’s fine.”

“Cool. Hey, I’m starving, so I’m gonna go make a start on dinner. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

You make yourself busy in the kitchen, and Aubrey joins you a few minutes later, bundled up in her blankets again.

"Do you mind if I watch?"

"Sure," you answer, nodding towards the dining table. "Pull up a chair, if you want." She does, and plops herself down beside you, watching--contentedly?--while you chop onions and garlic.

"You know, I ate an onion raw for ten nuyen one time."

"Seriously?" You laugh and look over at her. "I mean, I guess not being able to taste anything has its perks, huh?"

"Yeah. Helps when you've only got one set of working tear ducts, too." Your eyes linger on the cybernetic in her left eye socket. Your curiosity just keeps on getting the better of you.

"So… can I ask you about that eye?" you venture. "I mean, I _ know _ the deal with cybernetics, obviously, but…"

"You've never seen one like this?"

"Most people tend to go for something… subtle. Or cosmetic." Hers is certainly not the former, and judging by the distinctive scarring and--as far as you've been able to tell--lack of an eyelid, it's safe to say it's not the latter, either, unless she’s a woman of unusual tastes.

"Yeah. Well." Aubrey looks off at the wall for a moment, and you're concerned you've pushed the conversation too far until she turns back to you. "This is… It does other stuff.”

"What kind of _ other stuff? _"

"Can I show you something? Promise you won't get grossed out?"

"O... kay?" Before you can ask any more questions, her left eye has popped clean out of the socket and zips around her in a loop, coming to a stop in mid-air a foot or two away from her.

"It's a drone," she explains, as you stare at the thing (and do your best _ not _ to stare at the empty eye socket; you catch the glint of light on metal on the interior and that’s plenty enough for you). "It works as an eye, does all the stuff you'd probably expect from a fancy cybereye, but I can pilot it around like any other drone, too."

"Doesn't that feel weird? Popping it in and out like that?”

She shrugs. "I don’t feel much around there at all. You get used to it. I used to feel sick seeing two places at once, but you get used to that, too." Well, you don’t know what the fuck to make of this. Your best guess _ had _ been that it was an archaic piece that was all she could access or afford, but it seems you were very sorely mistaken. For a drone, it’s _ tiny, _ and completely silent, on top of lacking any visible method of propulsion. This is not something she picked off the shelf at any old clinic.

"Where did you _ get _ that thing? Something like that can’t come cheap."

Aubrey looks down and sucks on her lip, as the drone slots itself back into place in her eye socket.

"I was moving with some bad people, before I got this job," she says, eventually. "I had to do some shitty things, and I had some shitty things done to me. I had to… make some sacrifices to survive in that world."

"Is that why you…" You nod vaguely in her direction. "With the arms, too?"

"...Yeah." It takes her a moment, but she nods slowly. "Look, I don't… want to get into it."

"Right. Of course." You hardly register what you're doing as you scrape the ingredients into the pan and push them around. She's said so little, but revealed so much. "I'm… sorry that you had to go through that."

She's silent, at first. Then:

"Thanks," she says, quietly. She props one arm up on the counter and leans her head against it. You glance at her, out of the corner of your eye, and you swear you see a tear roll down her cheek.

But you can't be sure. You're not looking properly. You shouldn't comment. You turn your attention back to cooking and start chopping chillies instead.

"How'd you find this job, anyway?" you ask, taking the initiative to set the conversation back on a more positive course. "It's a big leap, to go from… what, gangs--?" (You look at her, and she nods) "--from gangs to working private security overnight."

"A friend tipped me off that you were hiring, and…" She trails off and shrugs her left shoulder slightly, her gaze darting from you to the floor and back again. "Can I tell you something?"

"What?" Because that doesn't sound like this is about to get sketchy at all.

"They… called in a favour for me. They got my application in front of the right people, and… I don't know. If they did anything else, they didn't tell me. All I know is I passed through all the interview stages, and here I am."

"Aubrey…"

"I _ needed _ this job, okay?" She spits the words out with unexpected aggression, her expression suddenly sour. "You know where I'd be without this? Hanging out at some shitty, crusty bar, doing a ton of Bull and beating people around in the parking lot for fun, waiting for someone to drag me away to start gunning people down. Nobody ever treated me like a person. I don't want that. I don't ever want to go back to that."

Her voice cracks at the end, and you realise too late that your attempt at fixing the conversation has gone awry. Shit.

"Aubrey, no, I don't…" You sigh, go to pinch the bridge of your nose, remember you were just touching chillies and think better of letting your hands get so close to your eyes at the last second. "It's not-- I'm just--"

"Don't tell anyone." You glance down, and now her eyes are wide with the same primal fear you saw when she was threatened with an extended hospital stay. "Please. I don't wanna get in trouble. I need this."

"I won't, I won't. It's okay. You're not in trouble." You exhale hard and stare down at the chillies, like they might hold all the answers to the situation you find yourself in. They don't, and after a few seconds, you flick them into the pan.

"I guess there's nothing to be done about it now. I mean, I think you really _ are _ a solid candidate, regardless. You're good at what you do. _ And _ I'm glad it got you out of a bad situation. Nobody deserves to be stuck somewhere like that forever."

"So you won't--you won't tell, or--"

"Nobody else has to know," you assure her. "It's irrelevant now. You're here, you can do what the job asks of you, and you can do it _ well. _ Not everyone can keep a grown man pinned when they've got a bullet lodged in their gut."

You can _ see _ the fear fall away as she slumps against the counter again.

"I don't want to lose this."

"You won't. It's okay. I wouldn't… do anything that I thought would endanger you like that." You don’t know where you’d even take this, anyway, if she has someone on the inside vying for her. But you have no reason to chase it up, beyond rules-for-rules’-sake; nor do you have it in your heart when you look at her. Her intense fear every time she thinks her job is under threat is making more and more sense, and she’s completely won you over.

She’s trying to do better. She’s trying to break the cycle. And you would be a terrible, terrible person to sabotage that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is hard, but kind of normal for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow we are 2/3rds of the way through Eggshells! Thank you for reading this far... we are heading towards some of my favourite scenes in the last few chapters and I'm excited to get to 'em. Chapter 7 will probably take a while to get done because I'm headed off to cold-ass CHICAGO next week for 10 days and won't be able to draw anything so expect another update... late this month at the earliest. OK GOODBYE
> 
> Soundtrack: [Clear Honey - Jetty Bones](https://takethistoheartrecords.bandcamp.com/track/clear-honey)

You're sitting across from Aubrey when she runs out of painkillers.

You glance at her from the other side of the couch, because the rattling of the bottle sounds distinctly hollow; she upturns it completely, and the last two pills fall into her palm. You hear her swear under her breath as she discards the bottle and reaches for the glass sitting on the end table.

"You got through all of those already?"

"Yeah." Aubrey shoots you a _ look _ as she takes a sip of water and pops the pills into her mouth. _ Don’t question me, _ it says. But you have to, when the only way she could have burnt through them so fast is by maxing out her doses every day for the past week.

"Has it been bothering you _ that _ much? After this long?"

She doesn't answer. She turns her gaze away, swallows, and takes another sip of water to chase it all down.

"Aubrey?"

"No," she mumbles, still looking at the TV. You wait for a further explanation; she fails to deliver.

"So what's it for?" More silence. "Aubrey?"

"It's--other stuff, okay?" she snaps back, taking another swig of water like it'll excuse her from having to talk.

"What _ other stuff?_" And nothing. _ God, _ if she's developing a dependency on top of everything else-- "Aubrey--"

"It's _ nothing. _ It's just... pain. It happens all the time."

"What pain?"

"I don't know, just, like, _ pain. _ Generally." She looks visibly distressed, now, as she puts her water back down on the table and sinks lower into her blanket pile. "I'm fine. Don't worry about it. You can't fix it."

"How do you know that?"

"Because it happened a long time ago, and you can't change that."

"Aubrey, _ what _ happened a long time ago?"

"_Stop it._" She shrinks into the corner of the couch and pulls the blanket up around the lower half of her face; though it muffles her voice, you can still hear it crack. "Stop asking about it."

The sudden fear in her voice trips you, and you stop, blinking. You didn't realise it was such a sensitive topic. Perhaps you should have.

"Okay. Okay. I'm sorry." You let the apology hang in the air for a minute, leaving her time to absorb it and for the tension to dissipate. It's not worth pursuing the past when your concern, right now, is her present state, and you don’t know that you’ll glean anything meaningful from interrogating her about her history. Once you feel like she's had enough time to cool off, you test the water with another, hopefully-less-invasive question.

"You said this happens all the time?" She refuses to look at you, and doesn't move, but reluctantly murmurs an answer.

"...Yeah."

"Is it--what _ is _ it? _ Where _ is it?"

"It's... everywhere. Anywhere. It moves. I don't know."

"Is there anything else that helps?"

"I guess, sometimes--If it's a specific place, then heat, or ice, or..." She trails off, shrugging her shoulders. "Hard to do that when it's all over."

"Right." You take a moment, again, to process everything. You wish you’d known. There was no way you could have, but you feel a vague, nagging sense of guilt nonetheless. "Well, I'll... grab you some painkillers when I go out. They won't be as strong as the prescription stuff, though. I'd say go back to medical and ask for more, but they'll probably start poking around and doing a bunch of tests if they think it's your side still giving you grief." And you don't need any kind of response from her to know that _ that _ is completely out of the question.

You run a hand back over your hair and sigh. "I think you should... still talk to the doctors, though. I know you don't like them," you add hastily when you see the look on her face, "But they might be able to come up with something. A long-term plan."

She continues to eye you warily. She looks like she wants to say something--but, ultimately, she doesn't; she uncurls just slightly and pulls the blanket back down from her face.

"Yeah. Sure. Maybe."

"I'm just saying, you... you shouldn't have to live in pain all the time. I mean--_ Jesus, _ have you been coming to work like this?"

"I can still do my job." She spits the words out and scowls at you, but there's a hint of that all-too-familiar desperation in her voice. "It doesn't get in my way, if that's what you're implying."

"I’m not. But it's not about whether you _ can. _ It's about whether you _ should. _ And you _ shouldn't. _ You shouldn't _ have _ to." You turn your whole body towards her, now, and you'd put a hand on her shoulder if you didn't think she'd break your arm for trying. "There's ways we can manage this. I don't want you showing up every day and having to be on your feet for ten hours when you're hurting the whole time. That's not fair to you."

She gives you another _ look, _ but this one falls somewhere between surprise and confusion, like you're proposing a completely alien concept to her.

"Just give it some thought, okay?" you continue, when she remains silent. "I won't _ make _ you do anything, but I'm--I'm worried about you. You have a lot going on. If there's anything that might make your life easier right now--and this might--I think it's worth seriously considering it."

Aubrey glances away, shrugs, and then nods slightly.

"Sure. I'll think about it."

"Okay. I'm sorry I got pushy with the questions a minute ago."

"It's... fine." She shakes her head and shrugs again. "If they know, they--they won't stop me from going back to work, right?"

"No." Your answer comes quick and decisive. "You're not the first person to turn up with chronic pain. Plus, you said yourself, you've already proven you can still do your job, and I can vouch for that. Don't worry." You get a little nod in response, and Aubrey sinks down against the back of the couch, laying herself flat with her head propped up against the pillows.

"I'm so sick of being stuck here."

"I know. I’m sorry. I mean, I _ do _ have to go to the store, if you wanna get out just for a half hour. If you’re feeling up to it."

"I don't. That's the worst part." She laughs defeatedly and rakes her fingers down her face. "My legs hurt. Everything hurts."

"Maybe next time, then." You reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder--successfully, without her snapping your wrist like a twig in response. She closes her eyes and sighs.

"Yeah. Next time."

***

Aside from a few bumps here and there, the rest of Aubrey's stay passes by relatively uneventfully. You take her back for a checkup ten days after her discharge; she's tense in the waiting room, but the nurse gives her the all clear and you're in and out again within minutes, much to Aubrey's relief. 

Your messages to her from work, letting her know you're still alive, become a simple part of your routine. She's steadily regaining her mobility. She stops wincing when she bends down; trips down to the laundromat to get her out of the apartment for a few minutes turn into short walks to the convenience store. She's iffy with dogs, you learn, as she eyes a big, clumsy-looking mutt passing by on the sidewalk, only to spend five minutes enthralled by a friendly neighbourhood cat that catches her attention on the walk home.

You still find her crying, some nights, but you learn to take it in stride.. She offers no explanation and you don't ask for one. A half hour spent soothing her so that she knows, for once, that someone is there for her is worth the sleep interruption that leaves you yawning at work the next day.

Though there are no further major incidents, you _ do _ continue to be concerned about her. It's hard not to be, when she's on the defensive at any perceived slight, or always expecting you to be angry at her, or paranoid about her absence at work and whether or not they'll take her back. You quietly hope that her impending psych assessment flags up her issues so that they can be addressed, properly, by someone who's actually equipped to do so. This is way out of your depth. You want her to get help. You want her to _ thrive _ here, not just scrape by, isolated and grappling with her demons alone.

Happy. You want her to be happy. She’s suffered enough in life. It’s time that changed. But she needs more than you have to give.

There are still days when she wakes up in pain, too, and they're harder to manage without her prescription meds, but the two of you do your best. Sometimes, it gets better; others, it lingers, despite your efforts. All you can do is keep the OTC pills coming and make sure there’s always an ice pack or heat pad ready to go.

(She admits, here, the one thing she misses about life with gangs: she never had any trouble getting hold of strong painkillers.)

When you return home from the gym one night, you almost bump into Aubrey in the hallway. She's got a mug of coffee in one hand and a snack bar in the other, a chunk of it already bitten off and still hanging between her teeth.

"Hey," you greet her, as you slide your sneakers off. "You good?"

"Mhm." She nods, quickly chews through her mouthful and swallows. "Yeah, I was just--just watching something."

"Watching what?"

"It's an old movie. Some animated thing." She looks… embarrassed? Uncomfortable, in some way, but it's hard to tell exactly how. "I used to… watch it a lot when I was a kid. I can turn it off, if you want to put something else on."

"No, no, it's fine," you assure her. "You carry on. There's nothing I wanted to watch. TV's all yours." She perks up, just a little bit, and wastes no time returning to the living room. You hear the TV start up again as you go about getting a glass of water for yourself; voices in a language you can't understand.

Curious, now, you exit the kitchen and lean against the living room doorway. You don't recognise the movie playing at all; it's not reminiscent of any of the mainstream animation studios you have a crude knowledge of through cultural osmosis. You're still no closer to placing the language, either, as you watch a woman in armour kneel before another that you'd guess is royalty. You can make out the subtitles clearly.

_ -And you would be? _

_ -Your champion, Your Grace. _

"What is this?" you ask, as you slide into place on the couch beside an enraptured Aubrey.

"Knight Saviour Luna," she answers, after a moment, looking kind of sheepish. "I know it's tacky, but it's… I don't know. I like it."

"I've never even heard of it. How old is it?"

"2043. It's Serbian, actually, too, so it never got a ton of publicity in the UCAS." Well, there's the language mystery solved.

"How'd _ you _ find it?

Aubrey pauses, then shrugs. "We had a lot of immigrants living locally who ran their own shops. They used to import stuff like this. Then I got the--the cyberdeck, when I was older, and it's easy to dredge this stuff up on the Matrix, if you know what you're looking for. It’s not like I had anything better to do.”

“Huh.” Animation’s not your thing, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit interested in what’s going on on the screen right now. It obviously didn’t have a huge budget--the animation gets choppy in places, and there’s some very questionably-drawn backgrounds--but in a world choked by a handful of megacorps and their subsidiaries regurgitating the same repackaged visual media over and over, it’s at least a refreshing change of pace.

At the end, when the war is over, the knight and the princess stand on the balcony of the reconstructed palace. The knight takes the princess’ hand and kisses it softly, smiles on both their faces.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to face the unavoidable aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back babey!!! I have been to Chicago, celebrated a birthday and written/illustrated a whole other fic since last updating Eggshells but we're here and I'm ready to get this thing done. We're on the home stretch and Aubrey starts to come out of her shell a little more, and I think it really lays the foundations for why these two are as close as they are. Enjoy <3
> 
> Soundtrack: [Airfield - Enter Shikari](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnGGiUkAosY)

Aubrey returns to the med bay four weeks after being shot for her psychology assessment.

She’s completely silent over breakfast. She doesn’t even eat; she pulls a meal bar apart into tinier and tinier chunks only to eventually give up, trash it, and mix a drink instead. She only gets through half the cup.

“Hey.” You stop her on the way out of the apartment, as she’s shrugging her hoodie on. “You’re gonna be fine, you know that?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Her blank face does nothing to hide what you know is going on under the surface.

“I mean it.” You squeeze her shoulder gently. “I know this is hard for you. Just remember, this isn’t just… This isn’t a test. It’s the start of a process. You wanted this, remember? You wanted that support. You don’t have to be afraid of it.”

She looks up at you; swallows, visibly. And that expressionless mask slips away, revealing all the fear underneath as tears well in her eye and her jaw shakes. You go in for a hug and she immediately latches onto you, trembling against your chest as you hold her close.

You don’t let go until she does; she pries herself away from you a minute later, sniffling loudly and rubbing at her eye.

“Are you okay, now? You need a tissue or something?”

“Yeah, I-- Fuck. Hold on.” She leans into the bathroom door behind her and rips off a wad of toilet paper, using it to wipe the snot and tear residue off her face. “Okay. I’m… I’m good. I’m okay.”

“Alright. Let’s do this.” You gently usher her to the door with one hand, exhaling heavily as you pull it shut behind you on exit. No matter how prepared she is, or you are, today is going to be difficult.

***

You could cut the tension in the air with a knife as the pair of you enter the med bay. Aubrey strides up to the reception desk with a stoic determination you didn’t quite expect, checks in, and takes a seat in the waiting area. 

There are a few other people dotted around the place, but it’s quiet. It usually is. You’ve only ever seen it get packed when large-scale jobs go seriously wrong, or public hospitals in the area hit capacity and you start taking their overflow. You sit beside her, watching her anxiously fiddle with her hair out of the corner of your eye.

“Kaveh?”

“Yeah?”

"Will they put me back in here? If I fuck it up?"

Your brow furrows into a deep frown.

"No. Nobody is going to make you stay here. I promise, okay? I promise. Remember what I said? This isn’t a test. It’s not about right or wrong. It’s about finding something that works for you.”

"...Okay. Okay." She breathes in deep and glances nervously down the corridor. “So, when I’m done, we can just--just leave and go home?”

“If that’s what you want, sure.”

She nods, pulling her whole hand back through her hair. Her implants glint in the artificial light for the brief second they’re exposed.

“I can always come in with you, you know.”

“No.” She shakes her head firmly, eyes fixed on the wall opposite. “I wanna do this on my own.” You don’t get the impression that she does, but you know better than to force that boundary. This isn’t the first time you’ve offered, nor the first she’s rejected.

You don’t have to wait around much longer. A door opens down the corridor, and a troll woman with blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun steps out.

“Aubrey Still?”

Aubrey sits bolt upright; looks at the doctor, looks at you.

“Go on,” you murmur, patting her on the back. “It’s gonna be just fine. You’ve got this.”

She swallows, nods, and you watch her face become steely as she readies herself before standing and making her way down the corridor. The doctor dips back into the room, and Aubrey follows her. The door shuts.

And now, you wait.

***

The wait is fucking long. She’s in there for a good hour, and despite the reassurances you offered her, you find yourself rapidly growing antsy. The room is too far for you to be able to hear anything going on in there. Even if you were closer, you realise, they’ve probably got it soundproofed for privacy. You’re left to just sit, watching other patients come and go, as the minutes drag on.

You can’t hear what’s going on _ behind _ the door, but you’re so acutely trained in on it that you immediately snap to attention when the door itself slides open and Aubrey steps out. She looks like shit. Her game face is gone, replaced with red cheeks and a puffy eye; in her hand, she clutches a wad of pamphlets. You glance up towards the doctor, still hovering in the doorway to the office, and she gives you a sad, sympathetic sort of look before slipping back into the room and shutting the door.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching out to Aubrey, who immediately buries herself in your side, clinging to your shirt with her free hand.

“I want to go,” you hear her whisper, just barely audible, and you don’t need her to ask twice.

“Did they tell you that you need to do anything at the desk?” She shakes her head, you _ think, _ and it’s going to have to be good enough, because you’re already walking her towards the doors. You’ll take the fall if someone kicks up a stink about it. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

***

Aubrey beelines for the living room as soon as her shoes are off. You head to the kitchen, pouring a coffee for each of you, and when you join her, you find her bundled up in a blanket, the pamphlets from the psychologist discarded at the end of the bed. She takes a moment to react when you offer her one of the mugs; she looks at it, then at you, then back at the mug, slowly reaching out for it. Her fingers clink softly against the ceramic. You take a seat beside her, as she stares absently down into the near-black depths of her coffee.

“So,” you start, quietly, once she’s had a few minutes to decompress. “Can I ask what happened?”

It takes her a moment to answer. Eventually, she sighs, dragging one hand down the side of her face.

“It was just… questions.” She lets out a little huff and rubs at the corner of her eye. “So many fucking questions.”

“Did they… you know. Did they say anything about you coming back to work?”

Aubrey stares off at the wall, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, she did.”

“What did she say?”

“She said--” The words catch in Aubrey’s throat, and she has to stop to compose herself. “I have to pass a physical, obviously, and I probably won’t have a problem with that. But no high-risk jobs for a while. Day shifts only. They want me to do some therapy course. They’re worried about how I handle stress and anxiety.”

“That’s… fair.” You nod slowly. “Anything else important?”

“They said I could try medication. Antidepressants, and benzos or something for panic attacks. Some other things for sleep and pain. I don’t know. I have to see a psychiatrist about it.” She waves vaguely in the direction of the pamphlets.

“Okay. What do you think of that?”

“I said I’d think about it.” She starts to get choked up again, and this time, the sobs are harder to fend off. “She kept--she kept asking all these questions about why I hate doctors, and why I’m so fucking paranoid all the time, and then--she started asking about my parents, and--and--”

The words begin to fall apart, and before she can finish the sentence she’s dissolved completely, curling into a ball against you and burying her face in your neck. You put your coffee down and tighten your hold on her, with both arms around her, your head laid atop hers. It _ hurts, _ seeing her like this--seeing _ anyone _ like this. You _ know _ these things are always hard, and you _ know _she’s going to have to reopen some old wounds before they can heal properly, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch.

“It’s okay,” you murmur to her, bringing one hand up and gently tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear. “_You’re _ gonna be okay."

"I don't wanna do this anymore."

"Maybe you feel like that right now." You rub her back gently, tilting your head to look down at her. "This is tough. But you're tough, too. You've got this. I know you do."

"Do I have to do it?"

"...You have to do _ something._" 

"What if it doesn't work?"

"It will. _ Something _ will." You started stroking her hair, at some point; the light stubble covering the back and sides of her head is bristly against your fingers, under the longer hair that hides it. "You have options. If one thing doesn’t work, you can try something else. You don’t have to stick with anything that makes you feel worse."

"I already feel worse."

"This is a big change. You're scared. That’s natural. I think you should sleep on this. Give it a few days, think it over, then decide how you feel. You don’t have to choose right now.”

She nods a little, clutching her miraculously-unspilled coffee to her chest as she cuddles into you. Looking at her like this, that feeling of fierce protectiveness that’s become so prevalent over the last few weeks washes over you again. You wish you could do more to make this easier.

Aubrey takes a long, slow drink from her coffee, and stares down into it as the ripples on the surface fade.

“What do _ you _ think I should do?”

You sigh quietly, pulling her hair back from her face again.

“I think… you should be open to trying anything that might help, if the odds are that it’s likely to. You never know until you give it a shot. These things could… really improve your quality of life in the long run.” You take in a measured breath and exhale slowly. “But I won’t _ tell _ you to do one thing or another. This is your call, Aubrey. I can’t answer that question for you.”

She doesn’t give you an answer, and you don’t press her for one. Eventually, she unfurls and relaxes back against the couch, slipping from your grasp and leaving you free to pick up your drink again.

“I have to see the psychiatrist, no matter what I do,” she says weakly. “She gave me all these fucking--these leaflets and shit to go through.”

“Look, forget about it for a little while. Take it easy for the rest of the day. I have to run to the store for a few things--” You don’t, but you can pick out something to make for dinner and bullshit together a shopping list, “--You can come with me, if you want. When you’re ready.”

“...Yeah. Yeah. Okay.” Aubrey pulls her knees up to her chest and sinks down against the pillows. “I just need to… stop. Just for an hour or two.”

“That’s fine. I have some cleaning I can do. Just let me know when you’re ready.” With one final, brief side-hug, you climb up off the futon and head back for the kitchen, where you begin rooting around under the sink for a bucket and cleaning supplies. You need something to take your mind off of things, too. This isn't even half the battle. The most difficult parts may be--_are_\--still yet to come.

***

You manage to scrub down the entire bathroom before Aubrey says she’s ready to leave. After a quick sweep through the kitchen to figure out what you actually do need to buy, you’re off and away.

Aubrey, hiding in an oversized hoodie, hangs off the cart and drags her feet while you’re in the supermarket, but at least it’s a distraction from her earlier appointment, you _ hope. _ She does perk up a little once you have her darting down the aisles to grab herbs and spices, tea and coffee--one of the few things you _ are _ actively running out of, because she drinks a _ lot _ of the stuff--while you’re off searching for the items on the list you had to convince yourself were worth buying to justify the trip out.

It doesn’t take long. You’re home again within an hour. 

Aubrey takes up her usual spot beside you when you start cooking later on. It's become routine; she pulls up a chair to watch, and the two of you chat. The conversation comes easier, like this, for whatever reason. She’s quiet, today--understandably--but when she does speak, the conversation quickly moves on to lighter topics than the state of her mental health. You're halfway into the cooking process, with rice and fake shrimp in the pan, when she poses a question.

"Can I try?"

"What, with the--cooking?" She nods. "There's not a ton left to do, but yeah, sure." She stands, and you step back, letting her take the reins. "This works, actually. Just keep stirring that for me."

She seems uncertain at first, but soon settles into the motions as you crack in eggs, toss in the cups of chopped vegetables you'd set aside earlier. You're finished within minutes.

"Looks about done to me. Sorry, that probably wasn't very interesting for you. Fried rice doesn't take very long once you get everything in the pan."

"No! No, it's fine." Aubrey shakes her head and smiles. "I wouldn't want to fuck it up, anyway."

"Hey! You didn’t even come close to fucking it up. You did great." You smile right back as you take the pan off the heat and start spooning it out into a bowl. "Do you want some? There's gonna be plenty left over."

"...Yeah. If there’s some going spare.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I am still going, yes I will finish this fic, we are close to the end!! It's been such a long time since I updated but the world went completely nuts so I think we can all relate. Let's say that in lieu of attending Gen Con I bring you fresh #content or something. Enjoy this, with your eyes (and I guess also your ears, see below). This may have been up a day earlier had I not decided last minute that I needed to invent future drug names for Aubrey's meds and spent a long time deliberating over that
> 
> Soundtrack: [Eggshells - Hockey Dad](https://hockeydad.bandcamp.com/track/eggshells)

One week later, you’re walking Aubrey out of medical with a little slip of paper clutched in her hand.

A week wasn't long enough. She’s been on-edge the whole time, occasionally spilling over into outbursts of anger over how it’s _ not fair _ and you _ lied _ and she’s being _ forced _ into this when she just wants to go back to work.

Honestly? With guns in her hands, she’s kind of scary when she’s angry.

But the rage inevitably disintegrates and leaves her withdrawn and tearful. You pick her up and dust her down, she says she’s sorry, and you tell her it’s fine. You’ve seen patterns like this before, in kids your parents have fostered, and you know she really _ is _ trying. She’s just overwhelmed.

She was only marginally less stressed in the lead-up to her psychiatry appointment than she had been to her initial assessment. Once again, you're stuck twiddling your thumbs in the waiting area while she's whisked away to a room a few doors down the corridor.

She's not gone _ quite _ as long, this time, and when she emerges, she doesn't look _ quite _ as distraught, but she’s still in a hurry to make her exit. You're up and on your feet before she even reaches you, a hand on her back as soon as she does.

"Hey. How did it go?"

"It was... I mean it was--it was fine, I guess." She sniffs a little and looks down at her hand; this time, she clutches not a wad of leaflets, but a single narrow piece of paper.

"So, what did you...?"

"I'm getting meds. For, um--" She falters, stumbles over the words for a moment, then shakes her head and shoves the paper into your hand. You take it and skim over the short list. Every drug is labelled with its dosage. _Zoraline,_ _50mg once daily. Anapax, 1mg up to 4 times daily as needed. Tritex, 40mg, once daily._ You only recognise the first two.

“What’s that last one?”

“For sleep. And pain. Long-term. I might get more of it. They don’t wanna give me any heavy stuff, yet.” Bastards. You _ get _ it, because you don’t want her getting (staying?) hooked on narcotics, either, but that’s not a great comfort when you think about the way she looks half-conscious on the futon, wincing every time she has to move, and all you have to offer is fucking Tylenol.

As you start to walk, you pull her into a subtle hug, side-on. You're... proud of her. She took a leap she was so scared to make. You don’t know how to say it right now without sounding patronising, but you hope that she gets the message.

"He said there's a dispensary--I can go get this filled here--_ fuck, _ do I have to pay for this?"

"Insurance would cover it if you could prove it was illness as a result of work, and it'd still cover most of it if it wasn't, but since you're still on probation..." You suck in a breath and sigh heavily. "Yeah, that copay's gonna be a lot bigger. Don't freak out," you add, before she can throw herself into too much of a panic. "Just... don't get it filled here. They'll take it straight out of your salary, and you won't even realise how much it cost you until your paycheck comes through. We'll shop around and see which pharmacies can fix you up for the cheapest. Or, uh--maybe you do that. Is that quicker? If you look it up?"

"Yeah. Yeah." She still looks shaken, but she nods, and falls silent for the rest of the walk out of the building and out to the car. You sit in silence, engine off, until she stops staring into space.

"Okay." Blinking herself out of her trance, she folds the prescription paper neatly in her hand. Her drone pops out and a holographic projection showing a map of the city springs to life from her left eye, hovering in the space in front of her above the dashboard and marked by three coloured pins. "Different places have different prices for different drugs, so we're gonna have to ride around for a little bit." She looks across at you (and the empty drone socket _ still _ kind of weirds you out). "If you're okay with that."

“Of course.”

***

The journey back home is quiet. Aubrey goes straight to the kitchen, and you can hear her pouring water and uncapping a pill bottle, the rattle of its contents as she shakes them into her hand. You don’t follow her in until you hear the glass cup hit the counter again. Watching for the sake of watching feels… invasive.

When you do enter the room, she’s still standing at the counter, turning the plastic bottle over in her hands. You make a point not to stare as you set a fresh pot of coffee brewing.

“Aubrey, you want coffee?”

“Mmhm.” You look back over your shoulder, and she’s still staring at the bottle.

“Hey.” At this point, you sidle up to her, and place a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m… fine.” She looks up at you, then tucks the bottle back into one of the paper bags she’s stashed both other bottles in. “I’m just…”

She trails off there, and her gaze drifts away from you. Neither of you says a word, but you just _ know, _ instinctively-- You gently wrap your arms around her and pull her into you, and she lets you, tucking her face against your chest.

You just hold her like that, for a little while. She doesn’t cry, this time. Not even a sniffle.

“I’m proud of you,” you murmur quietly to her, at some point. “You know that?” She gives no verbal answer, but you feel her arms squeeze you tighter.

Eventually, she pulls away from you. “Are we good?” you ask, as she exhales heavily and runs a hand back through her hair; despite looking dishevelled, her eye isn’t red and there are no tears staining your shirt.

“Yeah. I’m… yeah.” She nods, slowly. “I’m just _ tired. _ I’m _ really _ tired.” She looks it. She looks _ exhausted. _ You would be, too, in her position.

“Okay. You still want that coffee?” She nods. “You wanna go put something on TV, and I’ll bring it out?” Another nod. “Alright. Go on, I’ll only be a minute.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice and is out of the room in a flash. The not-too-distant sound of heavily-accented English reaches your ears from the living room, and you arrive just in time to be greeted by the synth-rock opening credits of something proclaiming itself to be _ Different Doom: Black Reaper Division. _ Despite being so--for lack of a better word-- _ edgy, _ it’s clearly aimed at kids. Aubrey is already worlds away and barely gives you a glance as you hand her one of the mugs and settle in beside her.

“What’s this one?”

“German. 2030s.” Aubrey nestles right down into the pillows, coffee clutched to her chest. “It ran for two seasons, but they never officially released the last few episodes. I never got to see them until I found them online.”

“Why’d they pull it?”

“The broadcaster went under, and they couldn’t find anyone else willing to air it or publish it. Eventually, they just put the whole thing out--with the missing episodes--and let it drift around the Matrix.”

“And nobody wanted to air it because…?”

“Because it’s _ garbage. _ Look at it.” But she’s smiling as she says it. “But it’s _ good _ garbage.”

You look back at the screen, and… yeah, she’s not wrong. The animation is sloppy. The voice acting is subpar at _ best. _ It is garbage.

But if it makes her happy, then it’s definitely good garbage.

You wrap one arm around Aubrey’s shoulders. She leans into you and sighs softly.


End file.
